Deep Water Rising
by technicolor-goth
Summary: ME has always been a black and white world. On one side, the orcs. On the other, elves. The barrier between good & evil has never been questioned by either. But when an orc of Moria is born with the body of an elf, can these defining lines still stand?
1. Hush

**Deep Water Rising**

Long ago a shadow fell across the fairest faces and bled the grace from the wisest hearts.

**A/N:** This is a fanfiction that separates itself very much from the works of Tolkien, who seemed to have a very definite image in his mind of what things become when destroyed by evil. No doubt, for the most part, he knew what he was talking about. But strange little me just can't drop the what-ifs that I dig up when I search through the delicate fibers that give life to a story. And there's just this one little thought that keeps resurfacing in the back of my mind - elves heal. It isn't just regular healing, renewing a few blood cells or growing new skin over a scratch. As long as their body lives, as long as their spirit remains, as long as they _want_ to be mended, they won't even be impaired by their injuries for long. The orcs came from the elves, tortured and twisted beyond any resemblance, but not killed - in fact, they thrived. And there are several crucial things which must exist within a race for it to survive in the least, things that are never mentioned by Tolkien, yes, but things that are implied if you know anything about the way society is maintained. Things that refocus the primeval ideas interlaced within the threads of our most beloved tale, and things that just might fill in some of the virtually non-existent other side of this all so black-and-white legend. This is my portrayal of what might have been, the unseen, the unknown. And all I can say is, what if?

((a.k.a. - I basically made the orcs into severely humanized elves, which is, in part, what they are. If you don't like it, please go away! Flames give me too much immoral inspiration...))

**Disclaimer:** What Tolkien owns, he owns. What he doesn't own, I own. Remember that I fabricated a lot for this story, including many orcish and elvish customs, and you've got yourself a disclaimer. Simple as that.

Chapter 1

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Five children sat on the ancient stones at the water's edge, making pictures of the broken, weathered boulders in their minds, imagining a fish there, or a face there, as they paused in their endless roaming of the great deep. The dark walls of hard earth reached out toward them all about the pool, the silent guardians of Moria's children. There had been seven of us, all together. My two eldest brothers no longer took to gallivanting about the mines as we did. They were already young men near their prime, with many more duties to look to now. But we had come to accept it, as one by one our brothers left our feral tribe to join the harsh world of the grown.

Seven children, seven fledgling orcs. I was the youngest, no more than a handful of years to my name at the time, though we could hardly have known for certain. It's hard to count the risings of sun and moon within the eternal dark of Moria. They stopped trying long ago. And so I have no idea how old I might be.

But in those days of my childhood, I was also the only daughter of the house. My youngest brother was not but half a day older than me, though those who were present at our birth say that this moment seemed like to an eternity, thinking both I and my mother might be lost. No one had thought that Tagar would birth another child. Five is quite a good number of fine young sons indeed. But the birth of twins, such a rare, powerful portent, was not to be expected at all. And at last, a girl-child. The seventh child. The cursed child. My mother named me Erashnak.

My twin's name was Erudak. It is said that twins of two genders will look no more alike than any brother or sister. But this was not so, not for Erudak and I. We shared nothing. He had our mother's strong features, but his was not the graceful strength of a lady, but the pending prowess of a warrior. His skin, unlike mine, was a fine, marbled black. When grown, I would be near a head taller than him. And yet, he would double me in stature. His was an unwithstandable smile, and the most charming golden eyes. Yellow like the sun as it blazes its last fire before the fall of night. His hair was a wild, untamable mass of brilliant black, a silver streak flowing down behind his left ear. It was not the silver of an old man, but the silver of our noble line, a rare gift indeed. The one thing, beyond our hearts, beyond our blood, that we shared. It had been long since one had been born with this strange feature - one every generation, until now. Our uncle, the lord of our house, had been the last. Much could be expected of Erudak.

No, if I were to choose one among my brothers whom I was most like, it would be Kirag. And yet we were nearly as different in appearance as I to my twin. As I was to every other orc. But he, my dear heart, and I, the cursed seventh child, were so alike, that even the very stones of our deep and lightless world seemed to whisper of how these two creatures must have been fashioned from one same soul, the same fragment of the vast thought that was the beginning of all things. We were the same being, dwelling in two bodies, in two forms so different, they could be of two races.

His hair was darker than mine of course, though not quite full black, with none of my hair's lighter tones and gleams. But in height we could almost be expected to be the same, for he as well was too tall for our kind (as was my mother and uncle, and all of my brothers, a quite common distinction of our line, save in him it was the easiest to see). But his skin was not the same pale shade as mine, both lighter and darker than life should rightly be, but just as fine a black as any good orcish man. I watched him, that long ago day, as he sat on a stone a bit higher than all the rest of us, silent and still as the hard earth beneath us, with his eyes trained to the water's dark, untouched surface.

It was this, our eyes, our silences, our observing natures, our deep dreams, that made us more like twins than Erudak and I would ever be. They were the exact same, our eyes, a strange and vivid hue. One could not tell where white ended and color began. It just flowered in from the black that centers every eye, a blue like deep water. Like looking down into the depths of a limestone spring, as our mother might put it. They were the kind of eyes that bore so much more than the tiny surface window could show. Deep, endless wells. Not the eyes of an orc. Any yet, we were.

The three of us were seldom far apart. As the youngest of the family, we had learned to rely upon each other very early in our short lives. We talked together, though any other might hear only silence. Distance was no matter. Our hearts could hear each other's words, though they seemed deeper than words, as if we were always together, as we were at that moment. Kirag sitting above us, silent, Erudak and I at his side, watching the flicker of the pale, blind fish below the surface of the lake just as he. If Erudak was not as close as Kirag and I, he did not complain. We had only each other. He had everyone. This we had long ago come to understand.

Ashraz and Lugdûl didn't mind our silence. Indeed, they had become quite interested in the turning of stones, searching for the small crawling things that dwelled in the dark, making quite enough noise to scare away any that might have resided there. Erudak's quick, neat fingers, longer than what was normal, were weaving a crown from strands of dark-and-damp-loving lichen, paying no heed to the antics of our older brothers, who had ceased their now futile search only to tumble into a patch of loose rubble as they wrestled over nothing at all. It was clear that our break had lasted too long - they were restless to explore.

"Let's go," said Ashraz, the eldest, as he finally managed to push off his younger brother. He was a warrior to be true, cast from the same mold as our father. Impatient, full of energy always, unable to sit and be still as his three youngest siblings. Now that Caragburz no longer came with us, Ashraz, with his unruly head of loose black waves, was even more impatient. Being the eldest of our little wandering band could not have been easy for him. Having the soft-voiced Caragburz with us had always meant that there was something to see, some reason to keep walking, to travel soft and quiet. Now that Ashraz had taken charge, with no one to check his endless enthusiasm, our ventures were most often erratic - long sprints in the misty flats, short swims in chill waters, endeavors scaling rock and stone as if we were not children, but a herd of wild things indeed. But still, no one complained. Often enough, once even Ashraz had tired out with a day of running free, we would come and rest by the lake shores again and watch the pale fish glide about for a time before we must return to the inner chambers, where we lived.

"Go where?" panted Lugdûl, a long-boned boy whose lanky appearance promised a tall stature as well - he would not be as strong as his older brothers. His was an innocent mind. His was the wish of nothing more than to find the answer to the question, _what if?_ He and the brother before him were too different for them to not be so close.

Erudak finished his wreath and set it gently on my head.

"A right little wood-witch, you," he said, tugging at one of my dark, ratty, not-quite-straight locks, his face all alight with a smile. It was his way to ignore the world around him for these brief lapses, as if we were the only ones there.

"Ssh."

We all glanced at Kirag, wondering why we had been silenced. He nodded toward the pool, and we looked in just enough time to see a silvery shimmer disappear beneath the surface, ripples flowing out from where the creature had gently touched the air.

"A sea-elf?" I breathed, and Erudak chuckled.

"Perhaps it was a great water worm," said Ashraz. "We should go before it decides to come back and eat us. Era would make a tasty little snack. Let's go up to the old spring, the one where they say the fairies used to dance at the full moon."

I saw a smile lighten the depths of Kirag's haunting eyes. He seemed so old to be so young. I never doubted that he had always been wise, though I see how odd it must have been for those who had not been there with us, wandering the depths of Moria.

"Perhaps," he said, though we all knew that it had been no more than a rather beautiful fish. He'd been watching it swim about for quite some time, telling my twin and I how its fine coat of fish-mail would gleam, if only it would come up to the surface. The others had heard nothing of this conversation, of course, and if I wished to call it a mermaid, no one much cared. We alone could speak of elves - fairies - without spite. For we were children, and to us it was no different than talk of dragons - none of us had ever seen one. To us, they were a story. As unreal as the sun, or the stars. And did not one of us share their fairytale skin? We let each other have our dreams. One needed dreams, in the dark embrace of the mines.

But this dream was not mine. It was my curse. And I had such precious little time before my innocence was purged, and I saw things for what they really were. When I came to see the hateful, fearful glances, to hear the whispered curses, and to understand why my own kind shunned me. When all the tales would become as real as they had been unreal to our ignorant minds. But that was not today.

So it was that the five of us went off in search of the ancient fountain we alone knew of, a single clear upwelling in the sward of natural standing stones, making adventure of it even when each knew well where it was. It was wrong of us, uncouth, of course, to go talking about dancing elves as if we were no more learned than a commoner's brood, and no better than the very subject of which we joked. There were a number of elves living not so far away, and those who didn't know better might think them to be fairies, or spirits, or what have you. They most certainly didn't dance about our spring in the moonlight, if they danced at all. None of us had ever even seen one, anyway. They were of a different kind - immortal, first-born, and evil with it. They didn't come here, of course not. Not if they valued their lives. Not the elves. Such murders hated us, and we hated them in return.

And I looked like them. Almost - not quite. But close enough.

Once there was one race, and then there was two. Like the branches of the great holly trees that guard the gates of our home, separating only to spread further and further apart, even as each strives on toward the light. Everyone knew the story. And what parts we didn't know, and parts that had nothing at all to do with the subject, we made up ourselves, for love of words. For love of things that we dare not name, not even in the darkest corners of our hearts. Things that only ones such as I and my brother Kirag might tell one another.

With their quick eyes my brothers would point out stone and plant to me as we scrambled up the rising slopes before us. Soon we found the place we were looking for, the only safe path that threaded up the cliff faces not so far from our sheltered lake, the place of our hearts. Even then it was still a bit of a climb, and one never grew bored of it, though we had become quite good at scampering about the rocks in our many visits.

To this day I do not know what happened. One moment, I was walking on hand and bear foot behind Lugdûl as we scaled the steepest part of the trail, for here it went upwards when all the rest went across. Then all of a sudden, the solid rocks beneath me shifted with my weight, much less than that of the boys who had stepped on it before me, and I sat down in a very unceremonious manner. But the path was too steep for sitting down thus, and I toppled over as if I myself were no more than a stone rolling down the slope.

Erudak grabbed for me, being close behind, but his hand had hardly brushed against my arm before I had slid out of his reach. It was as if the earth had turned against me, the stones turning to a river of sand as I rolled and slid down the steep path. But soon the path was not there anymore, and I clutched at an out-thrust rock as I passed and felt it slice into my skin, unable to hold on. And then, I was flying.

The ground rose up to meet me with a loud thud. I curled up as dust and pebbles showered down on me, barely daring to open my eyes as silence came back once more. My body ached all over. It was with brimming eyes that I surveyed my new surroundings, pulling myself up to a sitting position with quavering arms, trying to find air that wasn't so choked with dust.

I was in the flat under the cliff, far away from where I had been. But this place I had never seen before. There was a cave, not far above me. Surly we would have known of it before. But I was quite certain that I had never seen anything of the sort. There was a lip of rock not far away. No doubt it had concealed the little box canyon that I was in. It must be well hidden indeed, if my brothers and I had not found it already.

I glanced down at my hands. The left one was a bit scraped, as were my arms, but on the right there was a nasty gash where the stone I'd grabbed had broken the skin. Warm blood was running all over my hand, between my fingers, dripping onto my ruined tunic. I hadn't many good clothes for scrambling about the mines. Now I had one less.

Hot tears were beginning to run down my face. We'd never come to this place before. What if my brothers couldn't find me? My legs felt all limp with tire and shock, and the momentum of my fall had finally hit me, making me feel so wretched that I could have sat there and cried until my nose ran and my head ached even more. I rose unsteadily to my feet, weaving about on fluid knees as my face screwed up, now truly crying. Orcs feared few things in life, but all bore some deep phobia of falling. And for this, at least, I was not exempt.

It was then that a shadow of movement caught my sight, blurred with blind emotion and tears. I felt someone scoop me up into their arms, whispering in a strong, soothing voice. _It's alright, little bird. I'm here. Breathe deep, in slow, out slow. Calm down, little bird._

I threw my pale, thin arms around Kirag's neck, still crying into his shoulder, but trying to breathe as he said, and to concentrate of the little image that he sent me, of tiny birds pecking at seeds strewn on the stones. He had seen things like birds and stars, but I had not, and he knew well how to distract me.

_ That's it, little bird. Now what of this hand? We'd best be off home, and have Mother and Caragburz take a look at you. And then perhaps they will have a story for us to hear. What say you to that?_

No one had expected the birth of a sixth and seventh child. It had been quite a few years after Kirag's birth that we were born. It was hard to remember, at times, that we were not three of the same birth. But no, he was quite older, and quite capable of picking me up and carrying me as if I were no more than the little bird that he called me. I think I never truly knew and cherished just how much my brothers loved me, how fiercely they protected their little, elf-like sister, how they said not a thing about how my blood was red, or how water would rush out of my eyes when my pain overflowed. But they felt it, all of them, and they would surround me with their words, their smiles, their warmth, their tales and songs. And how much I loved them, and how much I wished that I had told them just once more when I could.

I heard my brothers' voices calling out our names, trying to find us, and realized that the only reason Kirag had reached me so quickly was that he had followed me down the cliff, leaping down after me on his long legs with hardly a sound.

"We're down here," he called up at them, "back at the bend in the path. There's a wall blocking the view."

Before long the three of them had scrambled down to us, Kirag meeting them at the bend with me in his arms, curled up like a roly-poly under threat. Erudak, last up the slope, was first to reach us. "Silly wood-witch," he said in a kind voice, ruffling my hair, and I realized that I had lost my crown in the fall.

"Is she alright?" Ashraz asked at once, taking charge in his superior age. Lugdûl simply gave me a look and smiled.

"We need to take her home," said Kirag, his voice soft and expressionless as always. "She's cut her hand well enough." My sobs had faded to hiccups, and I didn't say anything, embarrassed that I had cut our escapade so short.

So it was that we headed off in the general direction of our uncle's house, many hours before we would normally consider going home. But none of my brothers complained, careful of me as if I might break in half at the slightest touch, though I knew from Ashraz and Lugdûl's faces alone that they were disappointed. Nothing phased Erudak; he was content with all things, regardless. But with Kirag - you simply couldn't tell what he truly thought of his strange little sister, though he held me close and whispered soft words to my mind.

I made a pretense of appearing asleep as my brothers entered the swath of the house, watching them disband around me in some semblance of normalcy under my lashes, though we were all going the same way, and all ended up at the same place in the end. Kirag carried me to our mother's room, a small quarter that she had kept all her life, even after she was granted a larger room with her wedding. Now it was used for many things - a retreat, a place of calm and quiet. It was a bit of a stillroom in itself, and still furnished with a bed and bench. It was the only room in the house that had no decided purpose. Our uncle liked things to have their purposes. What time we did spend in the keep, we spent here.

Kirag deposited me on the bed, sitting cross-legged beside me to hold my uninjured hand. Erudak and Lugdûl quickly stirred the dormant fireplace to life. Ashraz had disappeared to find Caragburz, and soon the two returned, Ghazkûr, the eldest of us all, surprisingly in their wake. He leaned against the wall, watching us with his solemn eyes as Caragburz brushed my hair out of the way and pulled up my chin to look at my face, giving me a knowing smile that told me to stop being ashamed, they had all fallen off something or other at one time, and some had not taken it as well as I. He, like Lugdûl, had a lighter frame than his brothers, tall and lean as a young birch. He had a handsome, angular face with an array of emotional possibilities that were enough to sooth, convince, encourage or frighten young and old alike. Wise men took his advise without question. The worst patient would calm under his far-seeing gaze. He had learned our mother's craft and more with an insatiable hunger for knowledge, a healer of great worth, and for one so young, hardly a man yet, for all that his eyes seemed so wise.

"It's alright, Era," he said in his kind, steady voice as he leaned down and took my injured hand in his own, examining the ragged edges of the torn skin. "Just a little cut. Nothing to worry about." He stood up again and walked to the other side of the room, taking down a bottle from the shelf and looking at it for a moment before setting it down and turning to throw a pinch of something on the fire. A sweet, healing smell quickly filled the room, and I felt myself calming at last, surrounded by my brothers.

Ghazkûr uncrossed his arms and walked to the other side of the bed, kneeling down to my eyelevel in one fluid motion, the hard muscles that crossed his frame just visible under his dark tunic as he reached up to tug on one of my unruly locks. "What happened?" He asked with a faint smile that told me that he knew very well what had happened. His eyes were darker than those of his younger brothers, and his features grim set, his smiles often small. He was a warrior, strong as the very foundations below us, and heir to our uncle's vast house. The first of seven, already burdened with all the responsibilities of a man. Before too long, he would be pressured to marry. And I felt as if I would loose him, when that day came. I was glad he had not been too busy to come.

"I f-fell," I chocked out, feeling new tears prick behind my eyes. His smile became broader for but a second and he shook his head, gently squeezing my arm in reassurance.

The door opened again and our mother appeared, shutting it again with her foot before setting the basin she was carrying on the table beside Caragburz. "What's wrong, Era?" she asked softly when she had turned around, gazing into my eyes for a moment before settling behind me and gathering me into her arms. This question was not meant to be answered, and she rested her chin on my head as I leaned into her warmth.

Tagar was the strength of her brother, the center of the lives of her husband and her seven beloved children. Her eyes, like the winter sun, held the world beneath the mountain in place under a mantle of strength. Her lovely face could buy the allegiance of the foulest tempered warrior or unbearably prideful lord. Her dark braids were a river of gleaming ebony, her skin the color of precious marbled stone. Her voice was enough to sooth the deepest hurt. With all our hearts, we loved her. And she loved nothing more than her family, its vast array assembled around her like a cloak. Tagar was the heart of Moria. Without her, we would have been lost. I, certainly, would have perished long ago.

Caragburz wrung out the cloth from the basin and kneeled beside me in his quiet manner, reaching out his hand so I could offer my own of free will. I flinched back and buried my face into Mother's shoulder, knowing full well that this would hurt even more than the fall. Neither Caragburz nor Tagar would lie to me in this respect. I felt Kirag's hand slide across mine as his grip changed, threading his fingers through mine. _Hold on to me_, he seemed to say, _and the pain will be less_. My left hand securely in Kirag's grasp, I held the right out toward Caragburz, and was rewarded with his smile.

Warm water flowed across the injured flesh, picking up a the taint of dreary pink as it washed the dirt away. Gently my brother scrubbed at the dry, brown blood, flaking it off to reveal the angry red of my torn skin beneath. Touch was agony, and my body stiffened in my mother's grasp as my fingernails dug into Kirag's hand. In a careful moment Caragburz was done, and I hazarded a look at what I was certain must be a profound vision of gore. A short, ragged tear had been driven into my flesh. Even as I watched, a new, slow upwelling of blood began, a very good sign.

"No stitches," said Mother.

"Not as if they would have stayed in, with Era being such a wild little thing," said Caragburz as he nodded in agreement, turning away to find a soft bandage that he wound about my hand, tying it of in a bow. "You'll have to be careful with this," he intoned, knowing full well that I would not.

"Stay inside with us the rest of the day," Mother said in her soft voice as I examined the lines of her elegant hands, my mind void of emotion now that everything was done. I nodded, for I had not planned to leave anyway, not in my currently embarrassed state.

Dismissed, my brothers disbanded save for Kirag, who still held my hand in his grasp. Erudak gave me a brilliant smile, knowing well that his constantly moving mind was better off away from this still and silent place. We let him go, knowing he was right. The stillroom often bored him. Caragburz and Mother had already turned away, working at one infusion or another, saying or asking something of us every now-and-then, and soon I had forgotten my hurt, laughing or sitting in our perfect silence in turns until the world seemed right again, and I was happy as ever I was, in the dark beneath the earth, in the mines of Moria.

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A/N: Well, there you have it. And I do plan to write a good deal more about Moria, but it should only take three or four chapters at most. My goal is to make people see things a bit differently than they normally would. Perhaps you'll notice a few strange things... I'm not going to point them out for you. What do you say? Like it? Hate it? Send me a review! Or don't, and feed my social ostracism complex. It's up to you. Only you can prevent writer's block. (I know. Sorry. I'm leaving now.)


	2. Child,

**Deep Water Rising**

**A/N:** Well, this chapter's a bit late, but it's also a bit long, so maybe the two will cancel out. Thank you for your reviews, and on that topic, I did tangle with several aspects of orcish life that I wasn't very clear with myself. Some I just let go, because it would have been too much unneeded and boring writing to work through. But others, such as the aspect of giving birth, gave me a bit to think about. Just how orcs were made was not very well described in all that I've read, and I kind of liked my notions better than going around searching for the truth. But they _ are_ considered an actual race, and it's often said that they were breeding or multiplying. How could they create themselves without birth? That question was just going a little bit too far, especially since the story pretty much couldn't be written if I didn't decide to let them give birth, so I figured 'what the heck.' I'm not an avid Tolkienologist, nor do I plan to become one, so I suppose I'll just have to pretend that I know what I'm doing for now :). I suppose that would be fair warning to you all. Hey, and if ya liked that, wait 'til ya read this chapter.

**Chapter 2**

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Blood. It was all that I could think about, and all that I could see. A red haze filled my sight; a coppery scent drenched my senses and turned my stomach from food and drink alike. The color of my crimson blood was the most vibrant shade that I had ever seen, for though the eyes of the common orc were yellow, and my eyes as well as those of brother and uncle were blue, it was this livid, sticky red which was most colorful, most brilliant, and most detestable. For through the eyes one can see happiness and heartbreak, and all the very emotions that seem to make us alive. But in blood all that can be seen is what names us among the living or the dead. It is without character, without cause or virtue, without love or hatred or anything that we would wish to call in definition of 'alive.' Blood is our one true leveler, and our only segregator.

It had teased me first when I was young, when it had flowered blue-black beneath my pallid skin, and I had thought that I was turning color, that I would soon be just as my kin in nearly every way, beautiful and full of promise. But then the bruises had yellowed and faded away, and though they often came again, I remained pale as the poor blind fish who swam about in our little black lake. Now it tormented me again, and all the bleeding gashes through which I had suffered my red curse seemed unworthy of my embarrassment and pain in the light of what I was now to face. Vivid red womb-blood teased me like a bone thrown to a dog without teeth, labeling me a woman if only in name, though I must live with the knowledge that no orcish man of any standing at all would wish to take up with a girl so ugly as me. I would never bear children nor run a house of my own. I would never know what it was like to have what my mother and father had. It seemed that, while everyone was traveling upward, I was merely walking straight, with no chance of moving up, but every chance of falling down. I shuddered to think of the stares that I would receive, looks of revulsion and pity, and the whispers of the court among their petty selves - not the gazes nor whispers that met pretty young women of better blood than mine. I would not turn my face from young warriors and look up from behind lowered lashes, nor arch my shoulders in that pretty way and speak to nervous boys of the simple topics that women so often dredge up. I would sit and hide behind my cold complexion, and keep it secret as could be. If they thought me barren, so much the better, for it might as well have been the truth.

But I was not the only one who suffered the swift corruption of time and the coming of age. It had made Ashraz into a warrior, stealing him from our midst just as it had taken Ghazkûr and Caragburz before him. The day came when Lugdûl, too, was forced to leave us, after all too short a time of rule over our adolescent band. Again and again we heard tale of the exploits of our sword-bearing brothers, of Ghazkûr's prowess and genius, of Ashraz's strength and ferocity. But for Lugdûl life was not so simple. Weaker than the warriors before him, he gained no legends and sought no glory. He had no trade as Caragburz did, and our uncle, Thraknash, did not think well of his ideas and ponderings. The world of orcs needed no useless scholars, he said with vehemence, and left our brother in disgrace.

Our father, whose name was Erugor, was of another line not so old and noble as our own, but he had been bred right, and taught by teachers who knew much more than those employed by our lord and uncle. So it was that he took Lugdûl under his practice, and trained him in the ways of strategy and technology, things that had only been a pastime to him before. And as our brother's talent became obvious, so did Thraknash's fury at being undermined. And those left of us, the three still remaining in the realm of youth, knew that it was only beginning.

Our training had now, in earnest, begun. Kirag's lessons with sword and bow carried on with a ferocity that lingered on the edge of military, and I feared the knowledge that he, too, would soon be leaving us. And I had no idea what I would do, for every day I watched Erudak rise to the challenges that met him, and heard the whispers that spread of his might, of his luck, of his perfection. He was chosen, they said. He would do great and wondrous things. He would soon be grown, and putting fear into the hearts of men. And I would be alone. But now I too had entered into an age of practice.

The mines of Moria harbored more than the standard stock of orcs. There were many families that thrived there, separate as much as possible for all that they must be near. The wars fought among us for power and purchase were not like the wars of men, where the fiercer army may often win. Our wars were games of numbers, of sheer, unbridled force. If a lord's potential army was kept well-trained and large, he could often live with no fear of attack. And so it was not just men, but women also, who were trained in the arts of war. My uncle's hall was no different, and though I was useless by the color of my skin, I was given these tasks as well. For all that none would wish to fight beside me, both Mother and Father insisted that I be given the knowledge to defend myself. And of course, in the face of his sister, Thraknash agreed.

I was not to train beside my brothers as other sisters might, for I was far too weak. And I was different - my techniques must be adapted, my strength could not be relied upon, and even my weapons must be of another kind. My sword was an elvish blade of dwarven make, light in color and weight and traced with flowing script. We had found it while exploring the dormant swards of the old smithies many years ago, looking for treasure, one might say, for much had already been plundered. Once it was known that the sword harbored no ill toward us, it was given to me, for I could not easily wield the heavier weapons that my peers would use. Even still, it was so very hard that I many times thought I might die. But in this, as in so many things, I vowed that I would not fail, for my life truly was in the balance.

Time did not still for the annoyingly painful secrets of one little girl, and it was with one of these sessions of one-on-one combat that my life changed once again. Pragdash, the man who trained my brothers for the most part, was a good friend of the family and carried no grudge with me, being one of few who would strike some semblance of conversation in which I was considered a part and not a topic. He was of a simple nature, and honestly saw us by our potential, not our skin, thinking as much of Lugdûl as of Erudak, or of me. He was very loyal to the lady of the house, and Mother thought him an example of good husbandry. Thus, his job was fairly well unthreatened my our uncle's whiles. But this day he could not be spared to teach a weakling orc-girl the rules of swordsmanship. The one who came in his stead was a warrior who studied beneath him, one named Grulug, a man considered to be a fair teacher and a good judge of skill. What he was most certainly not was pleased to see me. I had trained with him several other times, and was well prepared to receive a fair bruising.

For what seemed an eternity I countered and parried without breaking his defense, barely blocking his attacks as beads of sweat streaked my dirty face. My teacher's methods were simply thus: if one is beaten down long enough and hard enough, they will eventually learn how to fight back. Though this concept might work in the long run, it was certainly not easy to enjoy, though I must say that his constant pummeling did bring a bit of muscle to my lanky bones.

By some odd malady Kirag had found the time to come, and watched from his perch not far away, leaning against a few fallen stones with a frown in his troubled eyes as I so swiftly began to wear down. My arms felt weak and empty as I lifted my sword again, feeling the jar of Grulug's swing all the more as black spots flashed at the edge of my sight. A fierce ache had followed me all through the day, not like a pain of the stomach, but centralized, and all the more intense. At times it felt as if my insides were coiling into knots, or being burned away. As my tire progressed, so did the pain, and I could not help but press a hand into my stomach, if only to make sure that I had not been ripped open, and that my guts weren't spilling out.

"Does it hurt, little elfling?" my opponent asked, mocking me with a leering grin on his warty face before landing another attack. "It'll hurt more, if you don't learn how to use a sword!" Angered, I tried to open a window by rushing him, hoping to surprise, but he simply pushed me back with an upraised boot, and I fumbled a few steps as pain flared through my abdomen.

"Grulug," said my brother, speaking for the first time, his voice low with reprisal.

_No!_ I thought back to him, enraged that my own body would turn against me. The last thing that I needed was for my bother to save his weak little sister from getting a scratch. I already had enough to redeem. But Kirag was adamant, and refused to heed me.

"Grulug!" he said again, louder, standing up as he was ignored. The next blow sent me backward, and I hardly saved myself from falling, but had no chance to regain my ground as Kirag's long hand caught Grulug's wrist and stayed his next attack.

I stepped forward to demand of him why he had intervened, but found myself stopped dead in my tracks as pain shot through my stomach once more. Bending nearly double I pushed all my weight against the offending muscles, and for some strange reason it felt more tolerable that way. Throwing my teacher's arm aside, Kirag pulled me upright to look me in the eye.

"What's wrong, Era?" he demanded, not at all in the kindly way in which I had always been asked before. He had become quite handsome already, though he lingered in the limbo between boy and man. His face was a variation of the face we all seemed to have, and I suppose we all were of a handsome line, save for me, though truly my face was not so different from his - dark and willful, and ever veiled. Even so I glared at him, determined to save some shred of dignity. He was my brother, after all, and I had no reason to fear him.

"_Nothing_," I replied between my teeth, the mental frustration echoing after the words. After a moment in which no angry reply was made, I felt myself sigh as a shiver ran down my spine. I felt cold. _I hurt myself. I don't know how. Maybe I pulled a muscle._

_Muscle pains don't come in waves_, he said silently, reminding me once again just how observant he was. _You need to go home and rest for a time. Now_, he added, as he saw me try to shrug away. He caught what I was looking at, and his face darkened visibly as he glared at Grulug, who was leaning back with arms crossed, a decidedly unsurprised look upon his face.

"You're free to go," said Kirag, without any of the normal courtesies, before turning firmly and pulling me along.

We walked in silence, I dealing with my pain and embarrassment, and Kirag sending me little snippets to take my mind off of both, reminding me that it was in my best interest that he had stopped the fray. I blocked my mind as well as I could, unwilling to let him know the nature of my predicament. I had went through _enough_ for one day, I told myself, and being comforted by my brother in such a matter was not in any way appealing. Yet I could not help myself but to feel a little relieved that he had intervened, and by the time that we had reached my room I had forgiven him completely.

As the only daughter of the house, I had been given a room to myself, though truly I doubt if any would have cared to share one with me. It was small and plain as our mother's little room, and through the narrow vents in the far wall I could see out beyond a cliff, deep down into the keep. The room was empty and wrapped in swaths of heavy silence, and as if by habit I went to the bed and lay on my side, curling about myself with my back to the door. Kirag sat with me for a time, staring out at nothing as if in deep thought, though I could hear no echo of his troubles. For a while he simply ran his fingers through my hair, waiting for me to fall asleep, I suppose, but I did not, for though the pain was less noticeable, it was far from gone, and for once, I wished that he would go. Kirag told me that I should seek Mother's opinion if it did not fade, and then he slipped away, as silently as he had first come. I remained undisturbed, for Tagar was most likely in the hall, and Caragburz would be with my other brothers, not exempt from the play of war simply because he knew his remedies. It brought me to mind once again that Kirag should have been off too, and this was not the first time. But it seemed so like his ways that I merely brushed over it in my mind, and toyed with a loose thread in my blanket in a lull between waves.

Finally, my annoyance got the better of my caution, and I crept out of my room as quietly as possible, if only because I was not in a mood to make noise. The dim clamor of the hall resonated toward me with the distant glow of firelight up the dark stone corridors, and every now-and-then a shadow would pass by in the light that fell from far-off doors. I hugged the wall like a frightened rat as my feet moved reflexively on the path they so often sought, and I hoped for all my worth that Mother's little room would be empty, that I could brew myself a cup of tea and be gone again before I must be questioned further. Then perhaps I would be exempt from the meal, and I could find refuge in sleep, where all sensation and emotion fades away. For I had no true dreams, save those in my head by day, having nothing to dream about, really.

The old, heavy door creaked loudly as I pushed it open, and I slipped in through the narrowest slit before closing it softly behind my back. The familiar dimness of the room had a presence that seemed almost holy, and I was instantly enveloped in the soothing scent of healing mingled with that of smoke and mold, a scent that would forever bring me comfort and peace. At first it seemed that the room was empty, for Mother seemed so at place among the shelves of mosses and fungi that it was easy to see her as but another lovely piece of the old dwarven stonework. But then she turned and smiled at me, and I felt betrayed by the sinking feeling that tugged at my insides like a weight. The mortar and pestle clinked as she set them down, and, wiping her hands on her apron, she moved to the other side of the room to retrieve a sack of some strange thing or another.

"You're here a bit early," she said without any hint of accusation, her voice as cheerful and pleasant as always. "Is there something that you need?"

"A bit of tea is all," I replied, trying to appear as normal as possible, though it came to me of a sudden that I had no idea what exactly 'normal' was.

"Well then, put some on for me as well, if you would, and take yourself a seat as you wait. What kind of tea is it that you want?"

"I didn't mean to bother you, Mother. I'll make it myself, and yours."

She merely gave me another smile, and I sat the pot to boiling over the little grate as I was told before sitting myself down of the old rough bench, uncomfortable around my Mother for the first time in my memory. The healing scent in the air had already done wonders for my cramps, and I leaned forward toward the fire to warm my cold hands and feet, feeling the drowsy contentment of childhood return before I could quite get hold of myself. I watched Mother's elegant hands measure out this and that with no need for instruments, and listened to the soft grinding of the mortal and pestle as if entranced by some healing magic, a reverie from which I only awakened once the sound of boiling water could be heard from the old, blackened pot. Carefully pouring two cups, I managed to find the stone crocks which contained the tea she most often drank as well as those that contained what I had come there desiring. As swiftly as possible I measured out the doses and put the crocks away, handing over her cup with a sort of unnatural relish for which I then chastised myself at once. Mother gave me a look over her cup as she took a drink, and set it down to take up mine. She lifted an eyebrow and gave the dark liquid a sniff, and I knew that I was found out even before she did.

"Era, are you hurt?" she asked, the motherly worry in her deep voice tearing me to shreds.

"No, Mother. I just have a pain."

The healer in her was out in an instant, ready to diagnose and treat whatever ails. "What type of pain? Where?"

"In my stomach," I said, fighting the desire to sigh. "My lower stomach. Like a muscle cramp."

"Your lower stomach?"

"Yes." I had no wish to play a game of questions with my mother, and after a moment's pause I managed to dredge up the will to tell her what the true nature of my ailment was. But I was cut off before I could admit to my secret, for she shook her head in that way that mothers do and stepped forward to put her arms around me, saving me from having to speak while still waiting for me to come to her, by some manner strategic planning, no doubt. How parents could be so wonderful and so annoying all at once would forever be a mystery to me, I supposed.

"You can lie and evade no better than Thraknash or Kirag," she said softly into my unruly hair before holding me out at arm's length. "I need only look into your eyes to know the truth. You must know that I have always wanted a daughter, and I see you no differently because of your skin. You are still mine, and once your brothers are married and grown, you will be all I truly have left. And I can still wish you all the happiness in the world, even if you do not believe you will find it."

I cast my gaze across the room, not comfortable with looking into the eyes of one so close, as many are not, especially as she spoke of such things. When she had let me go I stood still and uncertain for a moment before retrieving my tea a little shakily and taking a long drink. The bitter painkiller seemed to match my shadowed mood, and I wrapped my free arm around myself almost protectively, as if I could fend off the future by simply willing it to leave me alone. Mother took the cup from my hand and led me to the old bed, settling down at its center with an elegant grace before pulled me down before her, and now I could see that she had brought the little comb that Father had carved for her long ago, when she was still a child herself.

"We must braid your hair," she said in her calm, level voice, separating the dark, ratty strands with her fingers just as Kirag might do. By this age it was most likely that one's hair had done all the growing that it would do, and it was a symbol of womanhood to wear elaborate braids that were very near permanent. And if worn long enough, they would be. Most orcish women wore their braids for decades and longer, and took them to their graves if they were killed, which they so often were. I knew that girls were supposed to be excited to wear their hair in braids, but all that I could find in myself was misery. Mother would not let me go about forever lying to myself and the world, and I did not have the heart to turn her expectations of me away. But I could feel the cold knowledge in my stomach like a great ball of ice, that everyone would know. They would all simply glance at me and think the same thing - that it didn't matter, or worse.

I felt her draw the comb through my hair for the last time, parting it to begin twisting it about in the complicated braids of a woman without waiting for my consent, for she knew what my choice was, in the end. We sat in silence as we often did, and I could not help but enjoy her attentions, for I liked it when others played with my hair, and I felt a profound sorrow that I would never feel such again.

When she considered herself satisfied Mother rose from her place behind me, and my back seemed very cold without her as she found a torch and held it to the flame.

"Come and look at yourself," she said, and held the light over the drum of water that rested in the far corner of the room. Uncurling my legs I stood up unsteadily and joined her, taking a deep breath before gazing down.

What I saw was a young girl staring back at me, her strange eyes ablaze with the reflection of dancing light as it reflected off of the water to play over her death-pale skin. Her hair was both dark and light and spun of a thousand colors, and in the fire's light it was a coil of alluring flame, though I knew that in the dark that was true life it was a ratty nest of strange colors and eerie tones that couldn't quite decide to be straight, curled, wavy, or anything at all.

Her face was long and the bones strong even when so young, her lips swollen and curved, and tainted the shade of blood spilled in new cream. Her large eyes, neither wide set nor close, sat like crystal globes in the shadows of her strong brow, in the frame of black lashes that cast long shadows across her sallow skin. The black eyebrows were narrow and fell in a keen angle instead of a curve, a feature of defiance, of strong will, or perhaps just the desire to survive.

Her slight body was still straight and uncurved with youth, though the first signs of adolescence had already begun to steal the roundness of childhood from her form and give a awkward pointedness to her hard-wearing bones, and though I could not see it I could tell that her ribcage would one day be thick for her, and her hips and shoulders too broad, her legs and arms long and sturdy. Her skin was so pale that it seemed like a film of crystal, for her veins showed through like the branching threads of a spider's web when I held up my hand to touch my hair. It no longer fell over her shoulders like a shadow, but arched down her neck like a great serpent coiling upon itself. Her face was like that of my brothers, though so opposite in color that it seemed completely different. And for a moment I could almost think that she might become beautiful, if never pretty, save that I knew she would be called ugly all of her days.

"What do you think?" Mother asked, her voice nearly a whisper.

I left her question go unanswered, and as children seem always to do I reached out and touched the water, feeling its icy coolness flow over my hand. The image that must have been me broke like any other light as the ripples streamed out, and I watched them in the trance of one who stares at one place for too long, and it seemed that I could almost see another face staring back at me from between the little waves.

My concentration was broken like a fallen stone, and I started with a little gasp, only then realizing how far I had leaned down as drops of water peppered my face with cold. I flung myself around to face the door, and there stood Erudak with his head stuck in, an apology for startling me in his cheerful yellow eyes.

"Uncle wants to see us," he said simply, and I was immediately filled with dread, but Mother intervened.

"Please tell him that Era must be exempt, Erudak. At that, she must be excused from the meal as well."

"Well, then," he said, and I knew that he was not oblivious to my pain by the very tone of his voice. "All the luckier for you, if not for Kirag. Are you doing any better, Era? He told me you were feeling off."

I felt much better, in the matter of cramps, at least, and told him the first part, if not the last. He made some cursory remark about how well my hair looked, and I replied in thanks, though I knew neither of us meant a word. It was only a short while before he was gone, and I thanked Mother for releasing me from even one day of facing the world, even if it would only make tomorrow worse. But I was young, and she knew how children worked. Her kindness was never much of a surprise.

What did worry me was Uncle. His inspections were not forbearers of good news, and my previous suspicions of Kirag plagued my mind once again, save this time I could not turn them away. Thraknash was a formidable man and a ruthless lord, soft only in the matter of Tagar and friendly only toward those who had earned great reward. To the rest of us he was not cold, to say, but perhaps severe, and his eyes, of which Kirag's and mine were mirror images, were like ice no matter what his mood. He rarely had much to say to me, and I couldn't imagine that he would've had much to say to me then. It seemed that he felt that all of my allotted kindness had been spent when he had given me permission to remain alive, when all the court wished me to die. Because of that I could not help but feel a small, trying fondness for him, and always conjured my little smile for him in passing, for all that I knew that he would never return it. But I had nothing to worry from him now, for with Mother's permission I could have tea with the Balrog if I wished, and he would not say a thing, though to me, he seldom did.

But for Kirag, our uncle's little talks were not so short. It seemed that Thraknash held a livid spite for my blue-eyed brother which could have no explanation beyond his despise of our father. Ashraz might be cast from Erugor's mold, but it was Kirag who harbored his spirit, both rebellious and wise. And when the three of us were free to sit together as we used to do, I missed few chances to ask him to be careful lest he wake our uncle's wrath. And of course, he failed to heed me whenever possible. Mother was not invited to this meeting, and I feared for Kirag more than I had ever feared for one of my brothers since the day of Ghazkûr's first battle, so many years ago.

By this time the meal fires had been kindled, and Mother sent for Grishakh, our nurse, to sit with me while she attended the hall. Our meals were not daily, for many times we did not pay any heed to time and let one day draw into more. Instead we ate whenever food could be procured, for it was a precious commodity, and worthy of some semblance of celebration. Sun-dwelling meat was most desired, for the beasts that could be hunted within the keep were both limited and foul, and care must be taken not to run out of the few edible plants which grew there. Hunting parties brought back all that they came across, be they man or beast or their wears, and those who fell in our own wars were eaten as well, for we could spare no nourishment and dig no graves. Many times we were not told what we ate, which no doubt was for the better, save when something so rare as a deer was brought to meat, for deer especially belonged to the elves, whom we lived to spite. The fact that venison tasted quite good was also a benefit, of course.

Mother left with the promise to send me some food later, and Grishakh settled down on the bench with her sewing wears ready, and handed me a bit to practice upon, for I was still learning the trade. The nurse's hands moved about their work reflexively as she hummed a little song, her course fingers forcing beauty from plain cloth and demure thread as if it had been there all along. For a time, silence reigned with the faint crackle of the fire as it sent up a shower of bright sparks that danced above the flames like fairies for a moment before they dimmed and disappeared. And just as I felt myself settling into a thoughtless trace once more, she spoke.

"Mind your work, Era." And of course I did not.

"I've no talent for it. I stick my fingers."

"You've long enough fingers to do with. Practice will bring 'em grace, and sticking your fingers will give you a care."

A reply was not asked for, and I picked up needle and thread for a moment as if I didn't know quite what they were, before sticking the cloth and pulling my stitch through.

"You'd have a mind for it, if your fingers didn't find so much else to do. Time'll see you with the skill."

I turned my eyes back to her from where the fire had caught them again, but she did not look up from her work to see the doubt in my gaze. Ignored, I turned my attentions back to the fabric, but my mind was too restless for idle embroidery, and I soon stuck the needle through and lay it aside without pulling the stitch. My fingers found the hem of my tunic instead, and played with it for a time as I gazed out into the little fire, and the quiet moments drew on.

Grishakh said nothing of my hair or my dismal mood, for she could tell that I did not wish to talk. She alone among Mother's ladies was comfortable around me, and though I was the same around her, I just wanted to be alone, to sleep and forget everything for a time. Thus, I bid my farewells, wiping off the blood that I had pricked out of my hands before hurrying to my room.

I think I stared at nothing for an eternity, wondering what was so wrong about me to make an entire city wish to grudge me a chance to live. I could no longer let myself go on thinking of the simple fantasies that all girls had, for they would never come true for me, and most certainly did no good. I thought of my brother's predicament instead, but felt all the worse, and wished for sleep to come, though still it would not. After a time I felt the tears prick at my eyes, but swallowed them down in a hiccupping gulp, and wondered if there was anything that I could do to redeem myself of my pale, elvish skin. Perhaps, I thought, if I try my best to become the greatest of all that was expected in a woman, my repulsiveness could be forgotten for a moment or two, and I might live on the border of peace. If I could not be normal, than I would try my best to be perfect in what parts of normality that were offered to me. I would need to work harder at sewing and embroidery, and with that thought I chastised myself for leaving my cloth undone. And there was so much else that must be worked upon...

Given a topic of hopeful thought at last, I began to fall asleep.

---

I was woken from my fitful slumber by the sound of my door opening and closing as softly as could be, and turning toward the dim seam of light I saw that both Kirag and Erudak had come to wish me well. I sat up as they settled around me on the bed, and Erudak set aside a bit of meat and hard gray bread, for he knew that I was in no mood to eat.

"What happened?" I asked, and Kirag stared straight down, knowing of what I spoke.

"It wasn't the prettiest sight," said Erudak, giving a rueful smile. "You'll be pleased to know Uncle gave quite a good acknowledging grunt when I told him that you could not attend. Seemed almost like he cared, for a minute."

"You got in trouble, Kirag," I said, bending to look up at my brother's face, though I knew I couldn't read his mood.

"Of course," he replied, a ghost of amusement on his lips.

"Thraknash knew he wasn't at lessons today."

I felt myself grow cold of a sudden, for I knew that we had wandered into deep waters. If Kirag said that he was with me, it would be all that Thraknash needed to separate us into our proper places, throwing me into the midst of the womanry and he into a world of nothing but swords and blood. The careful balance on which our relationship sat with Mother was all that had kept us from what would, for us, be tormenting fates. But there was no other acceptable excuse, and if Kirag gave a defiant reply, the world just might come to an end.

"What did you say?"

Kirag smiled, with the same rueful smile that Erudak had given me.

"That I didn't wish to go. That I don't want to go to war, that I would fight if I must, to protect my sister and aid my brothers, but that I do not wish to attack others so that they must do the same."

I clenched my teeth in horror. He had ignored the question, saving me, but throwing unmasked insolence right into the face of the lord of our house. But it was as good as any excuse that could be formed at such a moment, I thought, admiring my brother's conviction even as I shuddered inside.

"What did he say?" I breathed, hardly daring to ask.

"The usual," he replied before Erudak could speak. "In that cold, seething tone of his at first, and then a little louder. A warning. Nothing more."

I knew there was more to say, but before I could ask, Kirag's hand grabbed mine, examining the sore, seeping mess that I had created of myself for a moment before dropping my hands again.

"You have enough to think of. Don't worry for me. We have a present to give you."

He took something from his pocket and held it out to me, and in his hand was a piece of bone carved in a pretty whorl, stained with the blood that had passed from my hand to his. With a single movement he unrolled the woven string on which it was looped and gave it to Erudak, who tied it about my neck. In my mind I saw a brief vision of a pure white deer glowing in a light that was not of fire, its head mantled in thorny bone.

"Father once killed a white deer when he was young. He gave the pelt to mother as a wedding gift, and saved the bones to give to us. He carved an amulet for Ghazkûr, and Ghazkûr carved one for Caragburz. And Caragburz for Ashraz, Ashraz for Lugdûl and Lugdûl for me. And I have carved one for Erudak. But something different has been done for the daughter of the house. Each of us has helped to carve the bone and weave the string, and now we give it to you. To bring you luck, though if time is any test, you already have enough."

I gazed at the amulet as Kirag spoke, and wondered why a white deer was more special than a brown when I was called cursed for being lighter than my kind. But deer have long been considered lucky in our tales, for one who could kill a deer was as brave and fierce as one who could kill a troll, for deer lived in the land of the elves, where we too are prey.

I could not say "thank you," for I was not thankful in the way that words are able to describe. It seemed at last my tears had overflowed, and I leaned into my brother's shoulder as he spoke to me softly of strange things far away, and before I fell asleep once more it seemed he said to me, _Someday, little bird. Someday._

And at that moment, when I was not quite sleeping or awake, I think I knew what he meant.

_---_

**A/N:** Ah, how I hate coming up with orcish names. With elvish at least I have some idea what I'm doing, but with this I'm just kind of putting sounds together and saying, "hey, that sounds orcish!" Anyway, if someone out there happens to know what these names are saying, please tell me, especially if my warriors are named things like "purple butterfly" and "lover of kittens." You'll have my eternal thanks, to be sure.


End file.
